


a night on the edge of winter, 1938

by puckity



Series: friends, or something like it [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward Boners, Friendship/Love, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Unconscious Pining, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1879317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puckity/pseuds/puckity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're cold and tired down to their bones, but for some reason neither Steve nor Bucky can really get much sleep these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a night on the edge of winter, 1938

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KiaraSayre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiaraSayre/gifts).



> Written for the 2014 Star-Spangled Fic Exchange and beta'd by the wonderful-as-ever Rachel!
> 
> You can also follow me on [Tumblr](http://puckity.tumblr.com/).

Bucky tosses and turns in his sleep, like he’s angry about needing the rest. And he needs it. Steve sees it shaded in the bags under his eyes and hanging off the slump of his shoulders; he hears it in the way Bucky stumbles as he tries to kick off his shoes by the door when he comes home at night. His days split between the docks and the butcher shop keep getting longer, or maybe he’s taken on a third job like Steve’s been suspecting but not asking.

Steve got a job mopping the floors at Brooklyn College a few days a week. When Bucky asks where he’s going on Saturday mornings he says that he’s taking a class and Bucky beams like the big jerk that he is and Steve checks out a few books from the college library for good measure. He dodges questions about what the class is on and Bucky doesn’t pry. He calls Steve “College Boy” for a little while and Steve pads the rent or the electricity or the groceries or wherever else needs padding that particular week. Sometimes he buys Bucky a new set of undershirts or a bundle of socks—nothing fancy, just things to keep him presentable. His ma used to say that nobody went wrong with a good pair of socks on their feet.

The bus ride was fine in the fall but now there’s a hard chill in the air; Steve’s throat begins to scratch raw and his lungs start to seize when the wind blows too fast and too icy. The cough is back and Bucky winces when he hears it. Steve thinks that even in his dreams Bucky probably hears it. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t sleep so well these days.

Steve can’t sleep so well himself. He sits on his mattress that Bucky dragged halfway across the room so it would be closer to the heater and thinks. Thinks about getting sick again. Thinks about how many days they’ll let him miss on the floors before they fire him. Thinks about the double date Bucky set up for them this weekend, thinks about the double date last weekend and the weekend before. Thinks about what he’s been hearing on the radio about Germany and Czechoslovakia. Thinks about what he should wear to see _Alexander’s Ragtime Band_ for the third time. Thinks about Bucky with holes in his socks.

Steve rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. There’s a crack in the molding that is inching towards the outer walls. Steve imagines that he could measure his life against the progress of that crack.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Bucky’s voice is raspy and Steve should be surprised to hear it, but he isn’t. He shrugs even though Bucky can’t see it and offers a noncommittal grunt. Bucky shifts and sighs heavy and long-suffering.

“Why aren’t _you_ sleeping?” Steve counters, prickling defensively at having woken his exhausted best friend up.

Bucky is laying stomach down with his head buried in his mattress. He doesn’t answer right away and Steve almost hopes that he’s fallen asleep again but then his head moves and his face pokes out between the flat pillows and the frayed blankets. His hair is a landscape of uneven plains and wavy hills and a few of his natural curls jut out defiantly over his forehead. Steve thinks he looks good like this—looks better than he does with half a jar of pomade slicking it all back. But Bucky says that girls like when a guy looks slick and Steve doesn’t argue with him because what the hell does he know about it anyway?

“How am I supposed to sleep with you sittin’ up like a ghost hauntin’ the place?” Bucky glares at Steve but the effect is lost in the bundle of bedding. “Aren’t you even tired?”

Steve doesn’t know what to tell him. Yes, of course he’s tired. Steve’s tired and cold and worried and feeling awful guilty for keeping secrets from the only person who cares if he can sleep or not. And, if Steve’s being absolutely honest about it, he’s a little lonely all the way on the other side of the room from Bucky.

Before the landlord turns on the radiators their mattresses are wedged in next to each other with the bed Steve’s mom left him pushed all that way against the far wall to make room. They both take turns saying it’s stupid, protesting that the other one should have the bed, that they could take turns, that why should they even have a bed if they aren’t going to use it? But Bucky would never tell Steve to get rid of his parents’ bed and they do use it sometimes. Bucky uses it when he invites a girl back; or at least Steve guesses that he does since he makes a habit of taking long walks whenever that happens. And Steve uses it when he’s sick, on Bucky’s orders. Bucky doesn’t take walks then, he barely leaves the room. Steve knows that if Bucky had his way Steve would have the bed all the time—especially in the winter. They’ve had fights about it and during the last one Steve threatened to burn the frame if Bucky didn’t drop the subject. So they compromise with Bucky’s mattress near the drafty window and Steve’s mattress singeing against the hot metal piping.

In the cold nights, Steve misses Bucky snoring in his ear.

There’s a huff and some frustrated muttering and then a struggle with twisted sheets and then Bucky is tripping off his mattress and across the frigid floorboards towards the bedroom door. He wipes at his eyes and drags a hand down his bleary face. “I gotta piss.”

Steve nods but Bucky’s gone before he can see it. He lays there staring at the cracked ceiling and wills himself to be asleep before Bucky gets back. But he can hear the stream hitting the toilet water and a low, long groan and it’s distracting. He wishes Bucky would close the bathroom door while he’s in there.

When he hears the flush he screws his eyes shut and tries to steady his breathing. He listens for the footsteps down the hallway, the creak of the door, the inevitable pause at the end of his mattress to decide if Steve’s really asleep and whether or not to call him on it if he’s not. It’s quiet and Steve thinks that Bucky probably knows that he’s faking it but isn’t going to do anything more about it. Then something hits the edge of the mattress and makes it jump and Steve jumps right along with it.

He opens his eyes and shoots Bucky a dirty look. Bucky kicks the mattress again, tilts his head to the side, and mumbles, “Move over.”

“No way.” Steve crosses his arms, aware that he must either look like a kid throwing a fit or a stiff in a casket at a funeral home. “There’s no room.”

Bucky crouches down and half-rolls half-shoves Steve towards one side of the mattress and slides himself down and in before Steve can reclaim the space. They lay on their backs, elbows digging into each other’s sides, and Steve thinks that neither of them will get any sleep like this.

Bucky breathes out into the frosty darkness. “What’re you thinking about?”

Steve could carve out Bucky’s profile against the soft haze of the streetlights coming through the window if he looked over at him. But he doesn’t, so he traces it for memory instead. “I don’t have any clean dress shirts for Saturday. Do you think the girls would mind a sweater?”

Bucky barks out a laugh and the mattress shakes with it. It’s infectious and Steve turns to share it with him but Bucky’s shifting onto his side and Steve finds himself facing a broad, blank back.

“I don’t think the girls will mind.” Bucky’s voice is muffled like he’s chewing on a mouthful of cotton.

Steve is crammed in now, awkward and uncomfortable. Bucky’s not moving anymore so Steve tries to follow suit but all his joints feel jammed up and his limbs itch to rearrange themselves. He considers the best position for the space and the temperature and decides that Bucky started all of this so he’d better not complain about it when it comes. When he finally hears a few soft snores Steve lets his body turn into Bucky’s, presses in along the curve of his too-long back and hips and legs, and rests an arm over Bucky’s stomach. It rises and falls with the snores and Steve folds his other arm under his head and inhales the sea salt and glycerin that clings to the nape of Bucky’s neck.

He’s drifting off, finally warm in his bones and calm in his mind and comfortable—so comfortable that he doesn’t notice the snores have stopped coming and his pajama pants are pulling tighter and his arm is curling into the wrinkles of Bucky’s too-thin shirt.

The body shifts against him and Steve is suddenly too tired to care if it’s closer or farther away. “Steve?” Bucky’s voice sounds farther away, but maybe it’s just that Steve’s ears are all stuffed up with sleep.

“Mm?” Steve’s lips buzz and his breath tickles a little tremble out of Bucky’s shoulders.

“Steve.” The voice is close now, although Bucky hasn’t moved. It’s taut and urgent like Bucky is gritting his teeth and Steve can’t understand why he’s not asleep yet. He’s annoyed at the edge in Bucky’s tone, souring the pleasant prickle just under Steve’s skin.

He curls in instinctively, tries to smother the tension creeping up Bucky’s spine. He pushes against Bucky’s backside—his _ass_ , he hears Bucky correcting him smugly in his mind—and then he freezes, all warmth and pleasure pumped out of him and replaced with ice and fear and mattresses across the room from each other from now on forever. He tries to put as many inches between the defiant tent in the front of his pants and his best friend as he can without making it even more obvious. Without making it even worse.

“Ste—” Bucky is moving now too, turning over to look him in the eye and Steve can’t do that. He’s not a coward but he is afraid and maybe tomorrow or next week he’ll be able to but not tonight.

Steve looks away. “I’m—” His voice cracks and he coughs and starts again, steadier. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

Bucky’s half-turned, twisted and staring up at nothing. Steve goes to pull away completely, maybe get up and go to the bathroom and calm himself down, but Bucky catches him by the wrist around his waist and hold on loose but firm.

“What for?” He rolls back over and drags Steve in close again. His hand presses over Steve’s, flat against the waistline of Bucky’s pants. “We’re friends, ain’t we?”

Steve nods and his nose brushes against Bucky’s shoulder blade. He doesn’t quite understand Bucky’s point but it’s enough to know that yes, they are still friends.

Bucky doesn’t say anything else so Steve leaves it at that. His pants are still tight and his skin still tingles probably more than it should and Bucky lets go of his hand but then sandwiches his arm over Steve’s and they must finally fall asleep at some point because when he wakes up it’s morning and Bucky is already in his dock overalls, knocking around the kitchen complaining about how they’re out of milk again.


End file.
